Frozen and Alone

I am an anomaly awash in the tides of society. If my eyes were fish, where would they be? under the frozen river, in the yet-soft mud while the current of the Hudson roves mindlessly, almost ignorantly. On top though, I see a wasted tundra its treeless field a sunken white: so arid, so cold, so wandering, the flagrant whip of scorn that swallows with the unseen earth its prey faultless and forlorn. When the sqirrel chirtles and runs across to fetch his winter store. His little rodent body, plundered by the icy plates, the tectonic shift of hidden sea, his windless cry, Help me. If my eyes were fish, where would they be? I'd save the squirrel, and set him free.